First, Do No Harm
by Cap'nHoozits
Summary: What if Urey and Sarah Rockbell hadn't run out of sedatives at their Ishvalan hospital? Originally written for the Livejournal FMA Fic Contest prompt, "Canon Change".


The patient they had worked on earlier, the big one with the tattooed arm, was beginning to stir. Aram, one of their Ishvalan assistants and an absolute godsend, cautioned the patient against moving. It was remarkable that he could move at all, considering how he seemed to have lost a considerable amount of blood.

Urey Rockbell turned his attention back to his current patient, whose scalp he had just stitched up. A pretty good job, too, if he said so himself. Urey had always been good with needles. His mother had taught him at an early age to sew on his own buttons and stitch his own torn pants. That way he would appreciate how much work it was.

"I know these aren't the most ideal circumstances," he told his patient. "But try to keep that wound clean." He grinned wryly. "I don't want my nice needlework to go to waste."

The man chuckled faintly. "You sound like my mother."

Urey laughed. "I sound like _my_ mother!" His smile faded and he patted the man on the shoulder. "I wish I could do a follow up, but if you're able to walk, you'd better get going."

The man nodded. "I will. Ishvala bless you for—"

" _WHAT IS THIS?_ "

The patient with the tattooed arm had suddenly become extremely agitated, howling and thrashing on the rough wooden bed. He was in danger of injuring himself and possibly others.

" _State alchemists…Amestrians…_ " the big man snarled huskily, pushing himself up. " _Unforgiveable…_ "

That didn't sound good. "Sedatives!" Urey called over his shoulder.

"On it!" Sara called back, rushing over to the supply cabinet.

Thankfully, Mr Edge had left them well-stocked before he left for good. The Rockbells didn't ask where or how he had gotten all those supplies and he didn't offer any information, which suited everybody.

Urey turned back to the increasingly violent patient and pushed him back, not entirely gently, onto the bed. "You're not going anywhere, my friend! You have some serious—"

"Get off of me!" the big man roared, shoving Urey hard enough to knock him off his feet.

"Doctor!" Aram cried, going to help him up.

Urey waved him away. "Forget me! Hold that man down!"

Aram was not a big person, but he tried his best, trying to avoid the man's flailing arms and calling out to him in Ishvalan. Urey got back up and returned to the bedside and planted his hands on the man's shoulders.

"You hold his legs, Aram. Lay on them if you have to!"

The patient with the stitched scalp came to help, throwing himself across the man's midsection. The man was bellowing like a bull by now and was just as difficult to harness.

Sara rushed up with a filled syringe. Urey glanced at it. "That's a good eight milligrams," he observed, speaking between gritted teeth.

Sara shook her head. "We're gonna need it! Gimme a vein!"

Urey braced his knee against the man's ribs to hold him down, then he straightened the man's arm to expose the cubital fossa. "Quick! I won't be able to hold him like this for long."

Sara nodded and gave the area a quick swipe with alcohol.

"Hurry, Sara!" Urey grunted. This guy was shockingly strong.

Sara jabbed the needle into the median cubital vein and pressed the plunger. Urey could barely keep the arm still, but Sara was every bit a dab hand with needles as he was. "Done!" she cried, pulling the needle out and stepping back. Within seconds, the man's struggles began to slow and before half a minute had gone by, he was out cold.

Urey let out a pent-up breath and gently lowered the man's arm to his side. "That's not going to last long," he said, dragging a sleeve across his forehead and looked down at his unconscious patient. "But he won't be charging straight out of the gate, not with that much thiopental in him."

"We still should keep a close eye on him," Sara reminded him.

Urey looked around and found a stool nearby. He took it back to the bedside and sat down. "Good thing it's quieted down a little."

* * *

The patient cracked his eyelids open with a sense of waking from a nightmare. It had to have been a dream. It could not possibly be true. But he still felt the bandages around his face and around his chest and his arm.

 _His arm…_

Out of the corner of his eye he could discern a shape and he turned his head to try to focus on it. A man, an Amestrian, was sitting only a couple of feet away. He remembered him from before, which could have been only seconds ago or ages. He tried to lift his head.

"I wouldn't do that just yet." The Amestrian sitting by the bed leaned forward a little. "You could end up with a powerful headache."

His head already hurt. "What…why…can't I move?" He felt vaguely panicked. "What did…you…do to me?"

"Gave you shot of sodium thiopental," the Amestrian replied cheerfully. "An ultra-short-acting barbiturate used as an induction to general anesthesia. It won't completely wear off for a while, since it's a lipid-soluble drug and you don't appear to have much body fat. And just so we understand each other, you go berserk again, and you'll get another dose of it."

He could barely move, let alone go berserk. He started to shiver. The Amestrian moved out of his vision, then returned. A blanket was laid over him.

"That's a typical side effect," the Amestrian explained. He sat back down. "I'm Urey Rockbell, by the way." He spread his arms. "Welcome to my state-of-the-art-no-expenses-spared medical facility. My lovely wife and favorite colleague is around here somewhere. Her name is Sara. I know that Ishvalans don't offer their names to just anybody, so I won't insult you by asking."

He had the impression that the Amestrian, Rockbell, was chattering on to distract him, as if he could ever forget the terrible reality. _Father! Mother!_

He drew in a quick breath as he was struck with a fresh wave of despair. _Brother! Why did you protect me?_ He wanted to scream out his rage and his agony but it only came out as a moan. _Brother's arm!_ Tears began to soak through the bandages around his face. He felt ashamed to display such weakness, especially before one of the enemy, but at the moment it was all he could do.

"Hey!" He felt a hand on his shoulder, not to restrain him, but for comfort, he realized. "For what it's worth, I'm so sorry this happened to you. I'm sorry any of this is happening at all. I really wish there was more I could do."

Rockbell's voice lost its cheerfulness and he spoke with bleak compassion. Until now, the Ishvalan had not grasped the fact that the bandages covering his wounds were the work of this Amestrian. Where there were destroyers, there were also healers, after all. It was a pity that such an arrangement was so out of balance.

"How does your arm feel?" Rockbell asked. "It almost looks as though someone tried to cut it off." His voice grew a little harsh. "That's a pretty sick sort of souvenir."

He couldn't even try to explain what had actually happened.

"Of course," Rockbell went on in a lighter tone, "If you did lose your arm, I know a great automail mechanic." He chuckled. "My mother, as a matter of fact. My little girl wants to be one, too, when she grows up. Here!" Rockbell reached back and took out a square of paper from his pants pocket. He turned it around and held it up.

"See? That's her," he said proudly. "Cute as a bug, isn't she?"

It was a photograph of three people. One of them was Rockbell, the other was presumably his wife, and the child that stood between them, a straw hat on her head, must be their daughter. He remembered being that young and happy, a lifetime that had long since ended.

Rockbell let out a sigh and turned the photograph to look at it with a wistful smile. "I know she doesn't really understand why we had to go away or why we haven't come back yet, but when she grows up I want her to be able to look back and be proud of what we did here."

"Proud?" His head was growing clearer but the rage he would have thought would reawaken by now was sluggish. His remark was more out of curiosity than anger. "You're proud of _this_?"

Rockbell frowned sternly. He pointed emphatically at the floor. "This? This here? This is a hospital. My wife and I heal the sick and stitch up the wounded no matter which side they're on, and you are living—I emphasize _living_ —proof of that." He jabbed his finger at the wall to indicate the distant rumbling of artillery and explosions. "That out there? That is going to end up a very shameful period in Amestrian history, but since the books will probably be written by Amestrians, it'll get whitewashed. That, I'm not proud of."

The doctor leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, and considered his patient. "Yes, a lot of what's going on here is unforgivable. I can't change that. All I can do is patch people up enough so they can get out of here. I've done all I can. The rest is up to you. You want to get back at the military? You want to thwart their plans? Get away from here as soon as you're able and _survive_."

The patient closed his stinging eyes for a moment. The Amestrian's words made a certain sense, as much as he hated to admit such a thing. He opened his eyes and turned his head. On a small table close by lay his brother's book. _Take it and run away. If something were to happen to me, my research would go to waste._

"Brother…" he breathed, a final farewell. He braced himself to sit up.

"Whoa! Hold on!" Rockbell said quickly, getting up off his stool. "Easy does it!"

The doctor slipped his arm underneath the patient's shoulders and carefully lifted him to a sitting position. His head swam a little, but the sensation passed. The blanket had slipped off, exposing his arm. He gazed at it for a moment, suppressing a shudder of horror. There was no remedy for it. It was part of him now.

"Here." Rockbell handed him his brother's notes. "This was tucked in the folds of your sash."

He took the hand-bound book. It was clear that his brother had entrusted him with something of grave importance. What that could be was not so clear. _You can't die! Live!_

Well, then, so it must be.

Rockbell helped him stand up, keeping a steadying hold on his arm. An Amestrian woman stepped up to them, her blue eyes taking a quick, critical stock of his bandages.

"I wish we could let you rest a while longer," she said. "But I just heard that there's some action coming this way." She shook her head and studied his face anxiously. "I'm afraid you're going to have a nasty scar."

The patient only nodded. There was no longer any sense bemoaning things that couldn't be helped.

Rockbell held out his hand. "Good luck. If we ever see better days, come by Resembool and look us up."

He frowned slightly at the man's hand. He was not so disoriented or so far steeped in despair that he had no shred of honor. What little he had left, he could spare. He slowly reached out and clasped Rockbell's hand. "Thank you."

* * *

The other soldiers had balked in the end, so Kimblee had to do it himself, tiresome though it was. Guns were so mundane.

Then the men had the audacity to grumble about these doctors putting them to all this trouble in the first place. Kimblee wanted to slap the bunch of them.

"These people stuck to their duty," he reminded them. He handed the still smoking Aerugan-made pistol to his sergeant and smiled at the two corpses on the floor. "I like people who stick to their purpose."


End file.
